


Short Works Collection

by Littlebiscuits



Category: Far Cry 5
Genre: Bathing/Washing, Blindfolds, Captivity, Drinking, Drugs, Dubious Consent, Fishing, M/M, Masturbation, Rape/Non-con Elements, Religious Themes, Restraints, Rimming, Rough Sex, Shaving, Soulmates, Spoilers, Tattoos, Threesome, Unhealthy Relationships, Violence, Worship, supernatural powers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-28
Updated: 2018-06-05
Packaged: 2019-05-14 19:43:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 15
Words: 13,623
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14776028
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Littlebiscuits/pseuds/Littlebiscuits
Summary: Collection of Far Cry 5 works under 1000 words. Various pairings, ratings and themes, written from a variety of prompts/suggestions.





	1. Fishing Trip

**Author's Note:**

> Rook is having a bad day, he decides to go fishing to unwind (Deputy/John, fishing)

"I don't know what it is about this stretch of river, but I feel like I could just sit here forever, just watching the water pull everything away."

Rook checks the line on his rod.

"Look, I know you have things you need to be doing, people to menace over a radio, torture to perform, creepy videos to make. God knows I'm normally all about thwarting you, rescuing townsfolk, not having my sin of the day carved somewhere I would be excessively unhappy about. But I made plans for today, no explosions, no getting shot at, no killing anyone. It was a whole _thing_. I bought new line, new bait. I was going to have a go at catching that big Bass with the one milky eye, the one they call The Bull. That sounded like a good day. No cult bullshit, no one making me liberate anything, no one screaming 'Sinner' at me, like I'm in some weird version of Invasion of The Bodysnatchers."

Rook draws his line in, casts out again. 

"Is that too much to ask? Really?" He looks sideways, at his fishing companion.

John Seed is sat stiff and unhappy on the chair next to him, hands bound together and attached to the chair with parachute line. His hair has come down on one side, and his lower lip is split. His broken sunglasses are about three miles up the river. 

He doesn't seem to have an opinion on Rook's dilemma. Admittedly, Rook gagged him with a torn-off strip of Eden's Gate flag, because he wouldn't stop talking about the end of the world, and confession. So it's difficult for him to have much of an opinion right now. If he was going to have one though, Rook imagines it would be...unhappy.

"What was I supposed to do? I think I'm being pretty generous considering. I mean, you tied me up and threatened to flay the skin off my chest," Rook says. "Whereas I tied you up and took you fishing. I'm sorry, which one of us is the madman here?"

John's expression suggests he doesn't find that a convincing argument.

Rook sighs. What do people want from him anyway? He takes a bottle of soda out of the backpack behind him, drinks half of it. The weather's good, and the fish are biting really well. It seems a shame to be doing all the work.

"Did you want to have a go as well?" Rook asks John.

John Seed glares at him over the top of the gag. One strand of hair has fallen over his eye, it makes him look agreeably dishevelled, and considerably less threatening. It really is a shame he's such an asshole.

"There's another rod, and I'm pretty sure there are enough worms for two."

John's boot skids in the dust, and he makes a messy noise of refusal. There's a swearword in there too, Rook would bet money on it.

"Come on, it might take your mind off being a psychotic, crazy person. Fishing is very relaxing, I feel like you could use some of that. It's been a stressful week. Also it's a religious thing isn't it, I remember it, something about teaching a man to fish...or turning a fish into a lot of fish. It's thematically appropriate."

John says something behind the gag, it sounds garbled and vaguely threatening.

"Well I'm sorry if my education was lacking, I had problems with concentration as a child."

John sighs angrily through his nose. 

Rook takes pity on him. "I will take the gag off if you promise not to talk about sin."

John's jaw moves awkwardly from one side to the other, eventually he nods.

Rook sets his rod down on the bank and leans over, tugs at the knot at the back of John's head and then very carefully pulls the wad of flag free. John surprises him by not immediately trying to bite his fingers off.

"I would like a drink," John Seed croaks out, which is fair, he has had flag in his mouth for the last hour.

Rook stands up, unscrews the cap and holds the bottle up, lets John drink. Because, really, all he had to do was ask. Rook is not a monster. He watches John's throat roll on every swallow, until the bottle's finished. Then he just glares until Rook pulls it away.

"It doesn't matter what you do to me -"

"I'm not going to do anything to you," Rook tells him. "I don't have nefarious intentions. I just wanted to go fishing today."

John's expression is the perfect mixture of confusion, annoyance and exasperation. 

"Then why am I even here?"

"Fishing alone is boring, and this way if I do catch The Bull, at least there's a witness."

John opens his mouth.

"I'm pretty sure lying is a sin," Rook points out.

John angrily shuts his mouth.

Rook does not catch The Bull, but he does catch some nice sized bass, and a very large clump of weeds. John isn't terrible company, even if he does complain about almost everything, borrow Rook's sunglasses, and eat half of his snacks.

Eventually, Rook packs up most of his gear, and then sticks a knife in the ground between John's feet.

"Well, this has been surprisingly not terrible, I might kidnap you again some time."

John glares at the knife, and his bound hands.

"How am I supposed to -"

"You'll work it out," Rook tells him.


	2. When All Else Is Lost

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is the last time Rook will ever be able to get drunk (Deputy/Joseph Seed, drinking)

The floor of the bunker is cool against Rook's skin. He'd thought it was flat but it has a strange, almost ridged texture that catches on his hair, over and over when he moves his head.

He releases the empty bottle he's been dragging back and forth across the floor. It rolls and rolls, before clinking gently when it bumps against the others, and there's no more, it's all gone. Dutch's entire stash. This is the last time Rook will ever be able to get drunk. And he's drinking alone, because the only other man for miles around right now thinks that God talks to him. Rook's drinking alone, because there isn't anyone else. 

Joseph does not approve of drunkenness. Joseph does not approve of his refusal to accept their situation. Joseph does not approve of a lot of things.

The lights are too dim, they click on and off at odd hours, and Rook doesn't even know why. He didn't pay attention to anything Dutch said that wasn't hurrying him to the next outpost, the next mission, the next fucking Seed to kill.

Rook misses the sun already, and it's only been days, not long enough to be considered weeks yet. But it's still too much time, too long underground.

Joseph appears above him, upside down, contemplating the arc of glass that Rook has made around himself. He still hasn't put a shirt on, none of Dutch's clothes fit either of them. This place was never theirs. They've stolen a dead man's future.

"You're punishing yourself," Joseph says quietly, soft like he wants to help. Like that hasn't been his sole purpose for the last few years. Punishing people, making people punish themselves, peeling them until they can't do anything but scream and agree to anything he wants. All of those people are dead now. Every single one of them.

Joseph can't help him.

"I'm the angel of Death," Rook tells him.

Joseph watches him, frowning down at him, eyes bruise-dark and always so complicated. Rook is never sure whether he wants to know what Joseph is thinking or not. Whether he's better off not knowing.

"It's the only thing that makes sense, isn't it? You like metaphors and religious symbolism, well there you go."

"How does it make sense to you?" Joseph asks, so softly, there's no judgement at all, just curiousity.

"I killed everyone I ever met," Rook explains. "Everyone I've ever known. I came into their lives, touched them, talked to them, and now they're all just _gone_ , and their families are gone, their pets are gone, there's no one to even remember them. Death just followed me, wherever I went, like I was dragging it with me."

He rolls his head on the floor, doesn't want to look at Joseph any more. He's not in the mood for judgement, for prophecies, for the promise of an intangible Eden at some point. If that was ever real, none of them deserve it.

"I thought what I was doing was right. I was just trying to do what was right. What I was supposed to do. When you're pushing towards something, fucking pushing for it, because you know that it's the right thing to do, you just _know_. That's your purpose and if you can just get it done, everything will be alright, everything will go back to the way it was. Everyone will be safe. That was how it was supposed to go. That was my job. Protect as many people as you can. Save as many people as you can."

The sky on fire, too bright to look at, orange and red and burning like liquid.

"Fuck," Rook says, and then again, softer, and then he can't stop. Because it's too much for just one word, there are no words good enough. He shuts his eyes and he fights it, fights it until his fucking throat hurts.

There's a hand in his hair, warm fingers dragging through it, one smooth movement after another. He can feel Joseph's knee against his shoulder, and he doesn't even know when he came down to join him. Among the empty bottles and the guilt, which is pretty much everything left of Rook's life.

Rook has been pushing Joseph away since he woke up here, him and his aggressive need to touch. His need to be the answer to every fucking question 

But Rook feels like he's _choking_ , and it's been a long time since anyone tried to comfort him. So he breathes, and he lets Joseph card his hand through his hair, lets him fold the other around the bend of his shoulder, until Rook's rolling head finds the warmth of his knee.

"Tell me I didn't break everything," Rook says, voice low because he can't get it out any other way. It's maybe the only thing he's ever asked Joseph for. The only thing he's ever needed from him. "Tell me that it wasn't my fault."

Joseph curves down over him, blocking out the light.

"It wasn't your fault, child," he says quietly. 

He leans in, and there's pressure against Rook's forehead, warm and solid. It lifts a moment later, replaced by much softer pressure, and a flare of warmth

"It wasn't your fault. It was all broken already."


	3. Open Invitation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John just wants Rook to come to church (Deputy/John Seed)

The house is deep enough in the woods that people don't just wander past it, and it has good line of sight in all directions, a route down to the river on one side, up into the mountains on the other.

It's the perfect place to be doing something you shouldn't, or _someone_ you shouldn't.

"You should come to the church," John says quietly. He says it absently, like it's something that just occurred to him, rather than something he wants to put insistence behind. Rather than something he's been pushing recently, with barely restrained desperation.

He's stretched out beside Rook, though he's just as naked, it's a brighter and sharper version. All taut lines of ink and distracting, shifting skin. There's a restlessness to him, bare foot knocking against the end of the bed, long tattooed hand absently moving against Rook's thigh.

"I can't come to the church, half the congregation would shoot me," Rook points out. It's not the answer he should have given, but it's probably the most important one.

"Joseph wants you there. He wants you to be a part of...of our family. He's promised you forgiveness. All you have to do is ask for it."

All he has to do is ask. John makes it sound so easy.

"Forgiveness for this as well?" Rook asks. Because Eden's Gate's 'no fucking' rule is the one almost everyone knows. Rook lets one of his hands slide across the warmth of John's bare stomach, feels his skin jump and pull in. Rook's fingers stray low enough to touch the base of John's dick, to consider sliding down it and catching hold.

John grasps his hand, and growls something that's annoyed, but doesn't necessarily want him to stop. John is very easy to distract. Rook could kill anything he has to say, just by pressing him down into the sheets and asking for it. But that almost feels unfair, it's like John can't help himself, like he can't say no. Rook moves his hand away.

"We're not -" John bites down on the rest, like it's something he doesn't want to share. His smile fights its way to something less aggressive. "It would be different," he says at last. "If you joined us. If you were one of us. We wouldn't have to do this. It wouldn't be a sin. You and me...it would be different."

Rook has no idea what that even means, though it's clear that John wants it. That John thinks it would be better somehow.

"I can't come to the church, John. I'm technically the enemy." It's still not the right answer. But Rook started this fucking mess himself. Staying in the middle of it seems to be the only way to keep everyone alive. And at this point that seems to be his chaotic and impossible fucking goal. He only has himself to blame.

"You don't have to be," John says, and he sounds annoyed now, shifting to a sitting position, so he can scowl down at him. "You don't have to keep pushing. You don't have to resist us. We're trying to save you. I'm trying to save you."

Which is the reason, maybe, that Rook still lets John push. Because John doesn't worry about a lot of people, and it's clear he fucking hates it.

"Joseph understands that it's hard for people to accept, to believe in what he's trying to build. I've never been as patient, never been as...empathetic as him. But I am fucking _trying_."

"You're not as kind as your brother?" Rook says, and he can't help raising an eyebrow in question.

"Don't mock him," John says tightly, all threads of anger. "He's been through things you can't imagine."

So have you, Rook thinks, though he doesn't say that out loud.

"I have no doubt about that," he says instead, which isn't an apology, but John seems to take it as one.

"When the end comes, I don't want -" There's a brief, helpless frustration in John's expression. Rook doesn't think he's felt helpless since Eden's Gate started, and it's clearly something he doesn't remember fondly. "I don't want to be able to say I didn't do everything I could." There's a threat there, but there's something like an apology for it too.

John shifts closer, he kisses him, one hard press against his mouth that gradually softens and then goes on for a long, drawn-out moment, indulgent almost, as if John's still not used to the fact that Rook will let him. He might be surprised what Rook would let him do. What he's made Rook do already.

"I understand I'm not the easiest person to...spend time with," John says. He leans over, fingers pointedly tracing the scar on Rook's bare shoulder. It's not the only one John had given him personally, just the last. "I've made a lot of mistakes, done a lot of things I regret."

Rook just wishes the wave of violent destruction John had been causing across the county was one of those things. Though at this point...at this point Rook thinks his own almost matches it.

John gives up, he looks vaguely disgusted with himself, as if he'd had that conversation all planned out, and he'd fucked up every part of it.

Rook reaches out for the tense length of John's arm, follows it up until he can catch the back of his neck, can pull him down. John's eyes, close and almost too blue, are sharp with frustrated want. With threads of something that still doesn't quite know how to deal with this, with them. Rook kisses him, and it's his own apology. 

This is Rook's mess. But he's not going to clean it up today.


	4. Needs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everyone needs something. Even at the end of the world. (Deputy/Joseph Seed, religious themes, worship)

Everyone needs something. Even at the end of the world.

Both Rook and Joseph are survivors, resistant to being _pushed_. They don't bend easily to other people's demands on how things should be. But it hadn't taken long to realise that the sheer weight of time they are going to spend together necessitates some compromises.

The first of the month belongs to Joseph. He needs to be trusted, to be followed, he needs to believe, and he needs other people to believe in him. There's a rawness to him, constantly under pressure, and Rook thinks that's the only thing that soothes it. The certainty, the conviction that what he has been chosen to do is right. That he has made the right choices. That people will follow him.

So for one day a month, Rook pretends to believe in him, he pretends that Joseph is _chosen_.

Rook will sit in the chair too small for his frame, in Joseph's tiny church room. He'll listen to Joseph speak, strong and unwavering, from the book he has rewritten. When Joseph reaches out, Rook will reach back. He will smile and catch Joseph's hand, and do the best job he fucking can of pretending to be someone who believes.

Rook will call Joseph Father, in soft tones. He'll confess, when Joseph needs him to. He'll let Joseph grasp him, lean into him, and give whatever support mad prophets need from their followers, or worshippers. Rook's not sure there's a difference for him.

When Joseph needs it, Rook will let him punish him too, he will let Joseph push him to his knees and make him beg quietly to let him atone, to be washed free of his sins. Rook knows the words, the words are always the same, he recites them the same way almost every time, though it never seems to matter. Joseph will talk himself raw, promising paradise, promising a new world, a world he will lead. Joseph will fold into him, call him his child, promise forgiveness, over and over. If he stays with him, if he believes in him.

Rook will stay, bowed into him like Joseph is an anchor, like he isn't the one of them most in danger of being cut adrift. Rook will pretend that he needs him. Because Joseph desperately wants to be needed.

Sometimes, more lately than at the beginning, Joseph will sing to him. He'll draw hands through Rook's hair absently, like he's somewhere far away. He'll tell him that he loves him. That they will be together at the end.

Eventually, Joseph will tell Rook he can go, and Rook will leave his church.

The second day of the month leaves them back in the main room, their awkward, tense détente reestablished. They'll return to the endless, dull, repetitive task of running a bunker with supplies that will dwindle day by day. Rook will return to wary, mistrustful quietness, and Joseph will be intense and frayed, a shepherd without a flock. But they will live peacefully enough for a while. Unpredictability kept to a minimum

The last of the month belongs to Rook. 

His needs are much simpler.

Joseph will come to his room, he'll let Rook take down his hair, press him into the wall and kiss his mouth open. He doesn't resist, he's never resisted, he seems to take his responsibility as seriously as Rook does, for whatever that means. Whatever hazy area of consent that leaves them both in. Rook could pretend, could pretend this is something other than a strange arrangement they have fallen into. It always feels like that would be easy, when he has a handful of Joseph's hair, and the slick inside of his mouth.

But for some reason he never does.

Joseph lets Rook undress him, because Rook misses that, sliding another human being out of their clothes, leaving them warm and naked under his hands. There's never any shame to Joseph, he's serene even in his nudity, which Rook has always found strangely arousing.

Joseph will join him without being asked. He'll let Rook tangle them together on the bed that's too small, an intimacy they have earned in silence, and sometimes the slow slide and push of another body, the messy press of another mouth against his own, will be enough for Rook. 

Sometimes Joseph will ease Rook's thighs open, or curve in behind him, desire clumsy but _fierce_ , and Rook will shut his eyes and curl his fingers in the cheap, bent metal of the bed frame, and feel every shaky thrust. Until something inside him releases, unclenches, and he can breathe again.

Rook keeps Joseph in the bed after, curls an arm around his narrow waist, and Joseph seems content to stay, to let Rook pull his hands over his skin. To find the planes and edges, bisected by scars. But Joseph is always warm, and Rook will get distracted, will get lost learning the lines of him with his mouth, and with his teeth. Until Joseph's hands are in his hair, tangling, encouraging in slow, gentle pushes. Permission given to stray wherever Rook's desire takes him.

Sometimes...sometimes, Joseph will let Rook spread his thighs, get slick fingers inside him. Body moving restlessly on every slow, twisting slide, while Rook watches, until Joseph's breath shudders out in a moan, something that's quiet and honest. 

On the last day of the month, they sleep together, the only two people left. Rook spreads his hand open on Joseph's chest, on the steady, manic strength of his heartbeat.

Tomorrow, tomorrow Rook will confess.


	5. Make It Look Like Work

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which John pushes, and Rook pushes back (Deputy/John Seed, restraints, rimming)

How hard is it to find a working soda machine anyway? 

He's thirsty and John Seed won't stop fucking _talking_. The man has a split lip, his sunglasses are broken, and he has his hands tied behind his back. But John still manages to look smug and unconcerned about everything. Where Rook is just sweaty and annoyed. Mostly because he'd done all the work catching the bastard.

It takes four stores, and one educational outpost in the woods, before Rook manages to snag himself a dubiously cold bottle.

"Thank fuck for that," he mutters, and drinks half of it. 

John looks at him, and then the bottle. Rook sighs, moves over and tilts it up for him to drink. John makes a show of it, because he's an asshole. Rook spills the last third of the bottle on him, because it's been a really long day. 

John's clearly determined to make it feel even longer, because when Rook is trying to find some way to restrain him to the counter John aggressively presses his ass back into Rook's crotch.

"Stop that," Rook tells him.

"Come on, Deputy, it's not like no one has ever roughed me up and fucked me before?" John's laughing, as if the thought amuses him. 

But that's a thought Rook didn't need right now, because it's been _months_ and John Seed with his stupidly tight jeans, and his smile, and his eyes, is not fucking helping. Rook pins him there, with his own weight, which in hindsight, probably wasn't the best move, because now he can feel every taut line of him.

"Stop," he says firmly.

John clearly has no intention of doing any such thing, and Rook swears to God he is going to bend John Seed over this counter and spank him like a fucking child if he doesn't. Jesus, Rook needs to stop thinking things.

"Come on," John encourages, voice soft. "You caught me."

Rook wavers, and then gives in. He swears and unbuckles John's jeans, thumbs the button through its hole, and John doesn't stop him, he just laughs, like he doesn't care.

Fine, fucking fine, Rook tugs his jeans and shorts down, finds the warm, naked curve of his ass, and he has to touch it, he can't not. John braces himself, and Rook knows exactly what he expects.

Fuck him. 

Rook sinks to his knees behind him, shoves John's shirt up his back. Before his hands are sliding back down his ass, easing it open, and John Seed makes a short, thready noise of surprise. 

Rook drags his tongue down the middle, a winding line that ends low with a curl and a press. It draws a shudder out of John, and then a hissed out word, not displeased. Rook does it again, and again, just because he can. Dragging slides of tongue that no longer fucking care how indecent this is. It's selfish, and greedy and he doesn't care.

"I can't fucking - " Whatever John can't do is crushed back into his throat by his next inhale, which cracks into a groan halfway through.

Rook rewards him for his incoherence by rolling his tongue and spearing it into him. 

John's fingers spasm where they're bound above Rook's head, then twist and try their best to tangle in his hair.

Rook bites down on flesh, enjoys the flinch and the hiss, before he's pulled back to the task of getting John open, with a combination of long, slow drags and harder presses. And it takes no time at all before John is rocking back into him, making desperate, punched-out little noises, while Rook tries to get his tongue as deep as possible in quick, greedy pushes.

Rook leans back, thumb's moving in, easing John open, dragging saliva to the wet rim of his opening and pushing it inside.

John makes a shaken noise at that, and Rook can't resist pushing his thumb all the way in, then dragging it out, helpless not to follow that rhythm once he's found it. John is so wet Rook could probably just slide his dick in, with no resistance at all.

And, fuck, he wants that. That's a really hard thought to say no to.

When Rook stands, John gives a growling snap of protest, as if he thinks Rook will just leave him like this. But when Rook's belt clanks open it strangles into another noise altogether. John bends into the counter, tries to edge his feet further apart.

Rook lines up, presses in, and he was right, he was fucking right, John just opens around the first push, one long shaky groan in his throat, that only cuts out when Rook is all the way inside.

It's good, it's so fucking good, Rook leans into him, spreads him open and starts moving. Slow, shaken pushes quickly falling into something harder, greedier.

Rook gets a hand on John's bound wrists, holds him down, doesn't miss the way John's hands clench, the way air just punches out of him.

This is not going to last, for either of them. Rook blames the adrenaline, blames his own lack of self-control, blames John Seed's ass. 

John tightens up, repeats the word _fuck_ , over and over, in ever more slurred tones, while he comes apart under him. Rook can't do anything but follow him.

After, he just breathes against the curve of John's ear for a minute, mouth open. John tips his head into the pressure, makes a low, pleased noise that Rook feels go all the way through him. He eases away, separates them, draws John's jeans back up, ignoring the faint noise of disgust. 

He's still pleasantly trembly when he makes his way across the room, gets himself another bottle. That was stupid, monumentally stupid and unprofessional, and he knows it. Rook drinks half the bottle, before looking back.

John Seed is watching him from the counter, his expression is bruised and soft, contemplative, as if he's thinking about keeping him.


	6. Sharp And Clean

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tools are there to be used (Staci Pratt/Jacob Seed, shaving, captivity)

When the guards lead him out of his cell Staci's expecting to be given some humiliating, demoralising task, to be performed in front of witnesses. While wolves snarl at him from behind wire that barely makes Staci feel safe from being mauled to death. Or worse, taken to Jacob, whose humiliation and demoralisation of Staci is more difficult to fight against, or to even see coming. Jacob, who breaks him without even trying, makes him feel cored out and helpless.

He's right the second time, the guards take him to Jacob, to his small inner room, that smells like guns, and sweat and something sharp, like floor polish, or wax.

There's a towel around Jacob's shoulders, steaming gently.

"Wash your hands," he says simply.

Staci frowns, thinks about refusing, thinks about it but doesn't. 

Jacob seats himself, kicks the second chair out of the way, to tell Staci quite clearly he's not going to be sitting down.

Staci's eyes go immediately, unavoidably, to the crotch of Jacob's pants. To the stark possibility of exactly what he's going to be forced to do. He doesn't know whether that would be better or worse, whether it would just feel like being cored out in a different way.

Jacob doesn't miss the movement, it draws a smile out of him, mocking and suggestive. It makes Staci's insides twist unpleasantly, while he waits. But instead Jacob huffs amusement and reaches into his pocket, unfolds a straight razor.

There's a long moment of silent consideration, before Jacob hands it over. Staci takes it, stares at it while Jacob presses the towel to his face, once, twice, and then settles himself in the chair, waves Staci close.

Even with everything Jacob is, everything he's done, Staci knows he doesn't have it in him to dig that blade to the bone, to drag it sideways, feel it cut through meat and tendons. To watch Jacob split and spill and empty out. Even if he could, even if Jacob didn't stop him, didn't _punish_ him for it. 

He doesn't - he can't.

Which makes him wonder if everything that happens after this is his own fault. If everything that Jacob does from this point is in some way _his fault_. For not doing it, for not being able to do it in this moment.

Jacob makes an impatient noise in his throat, as if he's been listening to Staci's internal monologue, judging his initiative. Or maybe Jacob knew this about him all along, right from the start.

There's a sigh, it's pretending to be disappointed but probably isn't. Jacob lifts a hand, curves it around Staci's colder, less stable one. Jacob's hand is rough, it grips like Staci is a tool he can use.

"One movement," Jacob says, so smoothly his throat barely moves. He brings the razor to it, turns Staci's hand, fluid and easy, until the blade is a gentle slope, and then he draws it down the underside of his jaw. Staci holds his breath, even though he's not in control, not really. "Slow, follow the growth, no stopping, no changing direction, no indecision, commit to every draw."

Jacob's hand slides away, leaves him directionless, and Staci can't - he doesn't have the skill for this.

"It's sharp," he says simply. Stupid and obvious. But he knows Jacob will punish him if he nicks him, and trying to do this without seems like something impossible.

"Tools know what they're good for," Jacob says quietly.

Which, if Staci hadn't gotten the message, makes it pretty fucking clear.

Staci's other hand wavers, uncertain whether Jacob wants him to touch, or to ask. He doesn't know which will get this done faster, which will get him sent back to his cell, to the smell of blood and dogs and misery. Which will get him punished, or worse the promise of punishment, undefined and threatening.

His hand finally settles on Jacob's jaw, encourages it to turn, which draws a long, amused noise out of Jacob, but turn he does. And that doesn't feel like a victory.

Staci knows he's not as good as Jacob wants. He's too uncertain, too soft settling the blade against skin, too gentle drawing it upwards. Hand trying to shake every time he pulls the razor away to wipe it clean. But Jacob says nothing, lets him get on with it, head tipped back far enough that Staci knows Jacob can see his face, can watch him. He's pretty sure if he did work up the courage to do anything, Jacob would know before he did.

He can feel Jacob breathing, the long steady stream of air, blade so close to everything that keeps him alive, keeps him moving. It would be easy, he thinks, for a stronger man. A stronger man would at least attempt it.

Instead he lets the blade gently drag two or three days growth from Jacob's throat, over and over. Pieces of himself learning how to give in without a fight.

Eventually Staci pulls away, exhales the breath he feels like he's been holding for too long.

Jacob reaches up, touches his own face and gives a low considering noise.

"You didn't fuck it up too badly, Pratt, I'm almost impressed."

Staci's still holding the razor, still doing nothing with it.

"Feel," Jacob says simply. He pulls Staci's free hand to his face, and Staci has the almost smooth warmth of Jacob's skin under his fingers, without his consent, blood pulsing underneath it.

Jacob smiles at him, all hard teeth and edges. Look what you did, it says. Look at what I made you do.


	7. Screw Destiny

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Not having a soulmate is very, very fucking rare (Deputy/John Seed, soulmates)

Rook still remembers John's expression when he told him, the furious disbelief.

He'd pushed Rook's shirt sleeves up, dragged his shirt open, pushed his head down to check the back of his neck. Rook didn't really blame him, not having a soulmate was very, very fucking rare.

"I don't have one," Rook had told him again. "I've never had one."

Rook gave up waiting for his at eighteen, three years later than it usually showed up. He still remembers checking for it every day, eager to know if it would be words, or symbols. He remembers wondering when he'd get to meet them, whether they'd be male or female. What they'd sound like the first time they spoke to him. But it's been ten years almost, and Rook's made peace with it.

Other people always seem to have more trouble with it.

There's no name on John Seed's upper arm, no symbol, no pattern of letters. What there is instead, is a mess of scar tissue, a jagged collection of scored, untidy lines and long-healed gouges, like someone carved at the space over and over, careless and cruel, leaving nothing behind. It looks like someone held him still for a long time to do it. And even the idea of it makes something sick roll in Rook's stomach. 

He still remembers the first time he'd seen it. When their chaotic, aggressively charged collection of meetings had left them somehow tangled together in the bed of an abandoned house. Rook had pushed John's shirt over his shoulders, and his fingers had found the rough edges of it.

John had watched his expression, whatever Rook hadn't been able to hide in that moment. He'd just clenched his teeth, shrugged, and said something about how things were meant to be.

Rook doesn't touch it though, a half a dozen opportunities later when this thing between them has only gotten messier, and more complicated, he still doesn't touch it. 

"I could carve one into you, if you like," John says, as if he's been thinking about it. He's leant into Rook, still half dressed, in no hurry for once, to get the rest of the way. There's nothing cruel in John's expression right now, it's shuttered and strange, but it's clear he's not sure how Rook will react.

Rook knows some people memorialise a dead soulmate in ink, or blood, but Rook never had one to start with. It feels like cheating to pretend he does.

"I think if the universe wanted me to have one, then I'd have one."

John mutters something that Rook doesn't catch, his eyes are sharp and unhappy.

Rook still wonders why John keeps coming back, why he doesn't make more of an effort to unburden himself of this particular sin. A sin they have committed repeatedly, with no hint of stopping. Rook has accepted that it's a bad decision he's going to keep making, one he'll feel guilty about later, when he doesn't have John's mouth on him. But this has gone on too long now. This is John's whole thing, this is what he's been telling everyone who'll listen.

"Why are we still doing this, John? You've told everyone that lust is a sin, repeatedly. Sex is not allowed in Eden's Gate. You've made people bleed for it. I've seen the videos, which if you were wondering are somehow both sexually suggestive and threatening at the same time."

John doesn't even smile at that.

"Uncontrolled lust is a sin," he explains, voice firm like it's a point he's made a thousand times. "Letting it rule you, letting it lead you astray, is a sin. Being with your soulmate is not a sin. You're two halves of one whole. How could any rejoining be wrong?"

"But we're not," Rook reminds him.

He listens to John breathe next to him, waits for an answer.

"No," he says eventually. 

John makes it hard to speak for a while, rolling into him and claiming his mouth for his own. It feels purposeful, almost angry, fingers impatient where they dig in his jeans. Rook doesn't know what he wants, what he hopes to get out of this. Rook doesn't know if he's a distraction, if John just needs to be wanted before the world ends. But this is the first time the sex has felt desperate, the first time it's felt like John is punishing himself.

It's dark outside when Rook wakes up, he can feel John still beside him, which is odd, because he usually dresses and leaves after. His fingers are moving on Rook's bare arm, slow drifts. He wonders if that's what woke him.

"What was yours?" Rook asks into the silence.

John's hand stops shifting on him, moves away.

Rook doesn't think he's going to answer, and Rook doesn't mind, he doesn't know why he asked.

"It was a chess piece," John says at last, voice flat.

Rook doesn't have to ask which one.


	8. My Brother's Keeper

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rook makes an honest mistake (Deputy/Joseph Seed, Deputy/John Seed, drugs, blindfolds, restraints, dubious consent, non-con)

Rook wakes up tied to a chair in a dark room, tasting Bliss in the back of his throat. It takes him a second to realise it's not dark, he's blindfolded, fabric thick enough to block out the light.

The moment he moves there's the tap of feet towards him, and a small hand touches his shoulder, slides all the way around to the other.

"Be on your best behaviour for my brother, he's trying to help you." Faith is familiar enough. Voice all sugary sweetness and encouragement. There's a push that Rook has felt before, that sparkle-coating of Bliss, but he doesn't feel in any state to shake it off.

It takes him a second to work out she's talking about John, who's done a lot of things, but Rook isn't sure helping him is one of them.

Something that sounds like a door opens, and then shuts, and the feet on the floor are wearing boots now.

"John?" Rook asks. 

The boots come to a stop, pause, before moving close enough that Rook can feel the warmth of him. And this is why Rook hates the Bliss, it steals all his common sense, it always makes him _want_. 

After a beat, there's a hand on the side of his face, palm resting on his neck, as if John's going to tip his head back, even though Rook can't see him.

It's strangely impersonal, considering how their last meeting ended. Rook huffs out a breath, turns sideways and opens his mouth around the thumb curved at his jaw.

It tries to move away, reflexively. Rook sucks it in, gently, tongue curling against the underside, holding the pad of it. 

There's a slow, shuddering exhale, bitten off. 

John isn't usually this reluctant, but Rook knows he's not supposed to, and Faith is probably still here somewhere. The world is warm and hazy and Rook is feeling hot and fucking reckless right now. It's not as if they haven't done this before. This fucked-up edge to their interactions that neither of them seem inclined to stop.

The hand slides away, leaving Rook adrift in strangely tense silence.

"Are you afraid someone will see?" Rook asks. He smiles, not sure what he's expecting, if John will play along, or whether the next ten minutes will be painful.

Two fingers suddenly ghost against his mouth, as if testing.

Rook opens wider, inviting, and there's barely a pause before they're sliding over his tongue. He closes his mouth around their length, sucks at them, teeth scraping the knuckles

There's a word that dies before it gets halfway out, it sounds soft and faraway. The fingers spread slightly, press down, then gently slide deeper. Rook pulls at them harder, in a way that's more than suggestive, and there's a low, hard noise from very close.

The fingers drag free, leave his lower lip slickly wet.

All Rook can hear is shaky breathing.

He leaves his mouth slightly open, waits.

The pause is very long.

A belt eventually clicks open.

"Yes," Rook hisses, stomach clenching in greedy anticipation. He swallows, feels himself leaning forward in the chair as far as his bound wrists will allow.

He hears a long inhale, not completely steady, and then there's a hand on Rook's jaw, cupping it, encouraging him to open, though he doesn't really need any encouragement.

Rook's mouth is slowly filled with weight, with warmth, soft and hard all at once. He closes his mouth around it, draws it in, indulges in the stretch of it.

A hand curves around the back of his head, encouraging in slow pulls, far more polite than John usually is, sometimes Rook will make him pay for that later, sometimes he won't.

Rook pulls him in as far as he can from this angle, all enthusiasm and suction. That gets him a noise, something shivery and wounded. John isn't normally this quiet. He likes to talk, and he has a filthy fucking mouth, especially when he's getting what he wants. 

The hand at the back of Rook's head is not as polite now, fingers digging through his hair, pulling in a way that's almost aggressive, but there's still something held back, something slow and careful. Something that doesn't feel like John at all. Rook would be more worried about that, but the room still smells sweet, and arousal is a welcome, delicious weight that's settled low and heavy inside him. He lets his eyes stay shut behind the blindfold, draws back, leaves John's dick wet to the air, and uses his tongue at the head.

The fingers in his hair finally learn how to be greedy, they tighten, demand a quicker pace.

Rook gives it to him, lets him go deep, flattens his tongue and takes the rhythm he's been given. Until it's all just _pushing_. Until John shudders to a stop, sliding awkwardly deep, making Rook choke a little at the angle of it.

John's fingers clench in his hair, and he comes like that. It's messy and warm and endless.

Until eventually he sighs, and draws away.

Rook swallows against the ache in his throat and breathes, while John puts himself back in his pants.

There's a pause, strangely quiet and then there's a warm, shaking hand against Rook's face, twined cord pressed into his cheek, he can feel the long, dangling end against his shoulder.

It's not John.

It's not John.

It's _Joseph._

Rook just -

He goes very still in the chair, he swallows, swallows again, tastes bitterness and the metal tang of quiet panic. 

The thumb curves once, gently, over his mouth, before the hand slowly slides away.


	9. Restraint

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rook is expecting torture, he's expecting something involving sharp tools and forced confessions. (Deputy/John, dubious consent, restraints, rough sex)

Rook is expecting torture, he's expecting something involving sharp tools and forced confessions. Something Inquisition-esque. There's always been the possibility that if he ever left this room it would be with less skin than he went in with. 

Which is why he's surprised when John returns, and stands over him without anything sharp or unpleasant, eyes trailing him like seeing him bleed is very much a secondary intent. Rook pulls slowly against John's very well-tied knots, which don't want to loosen, no matter which way Rook twists, drags or slides. Where did the man learn to tie things up, and was that before, during, or after fancy college?

Rook's even more surprised when John kneels in front of him, slowly pushes his thighs open.

"You're going to say yes," he says quietly. John's whole expression is smugly patient, but there's something under there, something like a wild dog that's been starved for months.

"I feel like someone hasn't been keeping their sin tattoos up to date," Rook points out. Because if John thinks he's going to rattle him with this, he doesn't know him very well. Either that or he's heard all of the rumours, and he thinks Rook is the one person who might let him pretend this is about anything other than his own tightly strangled needs.

John doesn't move his hands from Rook's thighs, like he's already doomed himself by touching him, fingers sliding on the denim.

"I would say it for you, if I could," John says pleasantly. Though his smile is anything but. It's ragged at the edges.

"But that would be cheating?" Rook guesses. 

"That would be _wrong_ ," John corrects. "Everyone has to find their own way. Their own path. I'm here to help them do it."

"And how are you going to help me?" Rook asks. He looks down, where John's hands are now curved tightly at his upper thighs, what they can grip of them anyway.

John looks annoyed now, like he realises he's backed himself into a corner. Rook wonders how long it's going to take to get out of the chair, how long John will give him to breathe if he refuses. Whether he'll revisit the pointy objects option. How hard he'll punish Rook for denying him.

It's not like the thought is horrifically unpleasant. John is all beautiful eyes over a shark's smile. Anyone who's ever had a self-destructive impulse would be tempted.

"Yes," Rook says simply.

John looks up, expression caught halfway between satisfaction and accusation, like he honestly hadn't expected Rook to say yes, or at least not so quickly. Rook thinks there's an outside chance John was testing himself. He wonders if this counts as a failure.

John clenches his teeth, and then relaxes, breathes laughter. He crowds close, pulls Rook's waistband down with warm fingers and undoes his jeans. Rook's halfway there already, enough that John's warm hand around him is an encouragement rather than a surprise. He hisses and shifts in the chair. 

John smiles like he knows how to win this - like he fully intends to win this.

He tilts Rook's cock and then leans in, opens his mouth around him. Rook grits his teeth, hisses a breath, can't help the reflexive jerk of his hips.

John gives a shuddering moan when he slides down onto him - and fuck, Rook can't not react to that. He can't pretend that this isn't going to give John at least half of what he wants.

Rook pulls at the ropes holding him. He wants - fuck he wants to get free, wants a hand loose at least.

John indulges himself. There's no real rhythm to it, nothing Rook can follow, can keep pace with, and he knows John is doing it on purpose. He knows he's punishing him for this. But it's still good, still nudging him steadily to the edge. Because this situation is just fucked up enough to trip something in him. Because John's mouth is greedy, it's practised and impatient, and Rook knows he's not supposed to, that's he's not allowed this any more. John is fucking sinning and no one is a witness to it but Rook. Which shouldn't do anything for him but sort of does.

He tugs at the ropes again, twists, scrapes something off his wrist, judging by the bite of pain.

John draws back, smiles at him, mouth wide and white and Rook will not beg him. There is not a goddamn chance.

But then John's mouth is back on his cock. Like he can't help it. Not so playful now, a messy pace that he knows John is going to stop.

Rook twists against the restraints, pulls the rope until his wrist stings and his arm twinges, because he's so fucking close, he just needs to -

The rope snaps, one flexing burst of sound, and Rook is utterly surprised to suddenly have his right hand free, to have it almost smack him in the goddamn face. 

John's whole body freezes. Panicked indecision cut through with arousal.

Rook shoves his newly free hand into John Seed's hair, fingers clenching tight, he pushes John's head down, one messy slide right to the base, that ends with a choked noise and the skid of John's knees on the floor. Rook feels the delicious flexing tightness of John's throat, and fucking _holds_ him there while he comes. And it's one long, shivery moment of bliss.

John gives a short, strangled groan, and then shudders where he's folded over, other hand clawing at Rook's thigh.

When Rook releases him, lets him pull back, John takes a shaking breath, his eyes are watering, and his mouth is slick and bruise red. The crotch of his pants is wet. He looks drunk.

Rook eyes him for a long minute, whole body twitching pleasantly, and then he very carefully starts untying the other wrist.

"I'll give you this one," Rook says, voice not entirely steady. "And I'm leaving."

He shakes the ropes off, slides a steel sharpener off the tool bench, and leaves John Seed behind.


	10. Awake

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rook doesn't want to be left alone ( Deputy/Joseph Seed, washing)

Joseph has a room at the back of the bunker, where he gives his angry sermons to no one, while Rook does his best to keep himself from going crazy, declining to be a part of Joseph's congregation. 

Joseph always comes out eventually, tired and hungry, content in his own strange, restless way. Which is why Rook doesn't worry, why it never even occurs to him to. He builds a mini archery range in the longest hallway, sets up one of the portable lights so he can switch from day to night shooting. It's only when he finishes it that he realises he hasn't seen or heard from Joseph for at least a few days.

There are no locks, Rook just pushes the door open.

The room smells stuffy and acidic, lights too bright, air unpleasant. Joseph is knelt on the floor, before the wall that is full of tattered, pinned pages of his own writings. His hair is loose, and he's looking at nothing at all.

Rook goes to him, crouches at his shoulder and calls his name, once, twice.

"Hey?" Rook touches him, fingers against the bend of Joseph's arm. His skin is cold and Rook goes from concerned to worried. "Joseph?"

Joseph blinks at him, like someone who refuses to come all the way out of sleep.

Rook carefully gets him to his feet, encouraged when he stands under his own power. But he doesn't give Rook anything else. He looks thin and hollow, and his nails have been bleeding for God knows how long.

Rook gets him out of the room, to the other end of the bunker. Joseph doesn't say anything, not when Rook unbuckles his belt and jeans, not when he carefully coaxes him out of them. Not when he backs him into the spray of the shower that's barely ever fucking warm. It's not built for two, but one look at the way Joseph stumbles and doesn't even try to catch himself, has Rook bending the shower rail outwards, stripping out of his jeans and shorts and stepping in with him.

Joseph sways into him, all wet skin and strangely confused hands. They hover at Rook's waist, settle, don't quite steady him.

Rook doesn't think there's anything sexual in the gesture, but his body refuses to agree, all crawling interest and hope. Rook ignores it, drags Joseph's tangled, wet hair back from his face in careful movements. It's much longer than he thought it was, which is a strange thing to learn when everyone is awkwardly naked, and he's nothing but adrenaline and worry.

"Joseph?" he asks, more gently.

The absence is unnerving as shit, and Rook would like nothing better than to hear something out of Joseph right now. He doesn't even care if it's another biblical prophecy about him, accusations of sin. Just fucking _something_.

"I know this place is terrible, but I would really appreciate it if you didn't leave me alone here," Rook tells him. 

There's nothing, so Rook figures he'll get the second job out of the way first.

Rook finds the all purpose liquid that's for the bathroom, that they have fifty-six bottles of in the back. It smells like the soap he remembers from school as a child. Rook tips Joseph's head forward, and works it into the weight of his hair.

"Ok, so this is officially the weirdest day in the bunker so far," Rook tells him, because not talking just makes it more uncomfortable. "Why do you even have hair this long anyway?"

Rook draws the weight of it together, digs his fingers gently into Joseph's scalp. It makes his eyes go soft, and then very slowly shut.

"So you are in there somewhere?" Rook mutters, with something that can't be called anything but relief. "This has to be sloth then, right? Or possibly greed, outside chance?"

Joseph doesn't open his eyes again until Rook gently tips his head to rinse, pulling his hands through his hair to try and pry tangles out of it. 

"I'll let you off lust." Rook says, very softly, doesn't look down at where their bodies are unavoidably touching. "I'm pretty sure that one is all on me."

Rook goes for the soap again, carefully lifts Joseph's arm, but there's no resistance. This is the most Rook has ever touched him, the most he thinks he's touched anyone for months. Touching that wasn't dragging someone out of the way of a bullet, or encouraging them up a ladder. Joseph's skin isn't smooth, it's scored and punctured, angry lines laid everywhere. But it comes clean like anyone else's.

Rook wavers once he reaches Joseph's waist, because that's an intimacy they are a few thousand rungs above. But the water will be cold soon, and Joseph is giving him nothing, save the hand he has loosely clasped on Rook's shoulder to steady him.

"Ok, fuck it, we're doing that then."

It's as quick and as disinterested as Rook can make it, though something in his head twitches against it, wants to keep touching, wants to encourage. Rook ignores it, sinks to a crouch awkwardly in the absence of space, finishes the long length of Joseph's legs, which hold half as many scars, some deep and old.

Joseph's fingers touch his head, uncertainly, and Rook's sense memory to that gesture is neither religious nor innocent. So he says nothing, he doesn't look up, he just lets Joseph lean on him while he washes him.

When Rook stands again there's...something in Joseph's expression, muffled, confused.

Rook draws him in, leans down, lets their foreheads press together, feels Joseph relax into the familiar gesture, exhale quietly.

"It's ok," Rook tells him, and feels warm hands lift to catch very gently at the sides of his face. "It's ok."


	11. Monsters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John Seed really doesn't know how to say no (Deputy/John Seed, violence, rough sex)

The hanger of the Seed Ranch is on fire. Mostly because Rook made a helicopter crash into it, spectacularly. 

The rest of the place is surrounded by dead bodies. Peggies slumped over crates and burnt vehicles, collapsed awkwardly over the wooden railings. Normally Rook's gone by now, radioing in his success, leaving someone else to come and clean up the dead, to neatly tidy away the devastation he's become unexpectedly good at. 

But life has become distracting recently. It's getting harder to leave some very specific places in the county. Some very specific people, if he's being honest.

John Seed is a conflicted, angry shape at the top of the stairs. There's a long red mark on the side of his face that will bruise, and his lip is split in a way that looks untidy and painful. His teeth are clenched and he looks _savage_. He's beautiful, in the way things shouldn't be beautiful.

He still lets Rook climb the stairs, push him into the wall and kiss him, he lets him drag his shirt out of his pants and get his hands on skin, he lets him push his jeans down and toe them off over the one boot he's still wearing.

John Seed really doesn't know how to say no.

"I should fucking -"

Rook never hears what John should have done, because instead of finishing that sentence, John walks him backwards, shoves him into an armchair and pins him there with his knees, climbing into his lap. His mouth is burning hot, too eager, clumsy in its impatience. 

Rook gets fingers in John's mouth, pushes them against the slick length of his tongue, and John doesn't bite them in protest, which isn't forgiveness but it's something close, something that doesn't want him to leave, that probably won't hurt him for making such a damn mess of everything. John closes his mouth around them, slides his tongue under and between until Rook's fingers are slick and sensitive.

When he pulls them free, John turns his attention to Rook's belt and zipper, aggressively dealing with both.

Rook pushes one of John's thighs outwards, spreads him obscenely and uses that hold to get his wet fingers inside him. John hisses through his teeth, and then just lets his mouth hang open, encouraging in awkward pushes. He looks wrecked. Rook drags him in by his hair, kisses the wounded redness of his mouth. The split on John's lip opens between them, spreading blood against Rook's tongue and teeth.

"Get the fuck on with it," John says, breathless and clipped like Rook has to make this worth it.

Rook draws his fingers free, holds himself so John can sink onto him. Which he does, in stilted, gasping pushes, one hand clenched around Rook's where it still holds his thigh. 

He's fucking tight, in a way that feels delicious and vindictive, in a way that has Rook looping a hand into the top of John's vest, pulling him closer and kissing him agin.

"I should be the one putting you over the furniture," John growls, voice angry and hoarse, but still an inch away from moaning.

"When you come and trash my house, and kill all my guards, you can fuck me," Rook tells him. "You can fuck me like you deserve it."

Which draws a groan out of John, and the sudden greedy clench of hands in his hair. He's moving in Rook's lap now, a grinding ache of tightness that claws its way through him.

"Your wrath will be the death of you," John says, he sounds somewhere between disappointed and gleeful. His mouth is slickly red, inviting in a way that's wrong and _perfect_.

"Probably." There's a reason people keep giving Rook a gun and sending him out to kill people. Though he's pretty sure this counts as consorting with the enemy. In Rook's defence the enemy is pliable and willing and he hasn't told him to stop yet. He's told him a lot of things, but none of them have been stop.

Though they will have to stop eventually, they can't keep doing this. One of them is going to die from it eventually.

Rook slides his hands up under John's shirt, gets a better grip on warm skin, feels his chest expand when he breathes. They can't move properly like this, they're both too big for the chair, but it doesn't matter. Rook can see it, John is close, he's so fucking close.

He pulls John down into him, watches his breath choke in his throat, watches his eyes go dark and liquid when he grips at Rook's shoulder and curses, and his orgasm breaks him open, in a way that Rook never gets tired of watching. Rook kind of wants to fuck him through it, but he's already there, he's already coming. 

A long, shaky moment later John's forehead is rolling lazily against his own, fingers curved over the back of his skull. After a few steady breaths, John leans in and kisses him. It's weirdly intimate, considering this thing between them almost always starts and ends with violence. Rook kisses him back. 

John's body is too hot, beard a rasp against the end of his nose, and his knees are digging in uncomfortably. But Rook's in no rush to move him, and he thinks that reflects poorly on him.

"Come find me tomorrow, if nothing's exploding," Rook tells him. Because it's probably too late to pretend he isn't in this until it kills one of them. "I'll be in the lookout tower. You can trash the place, and then fuck me over the radio bench."

John makes a cracked, needy noise against the side of his face, fingers tightening to pain in his hair. 

"Yes," he says simply.


	12. Where You Lay Your Hands

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Joseph stretches the definition of what's allowed and what isn't to absolute breaking point. (Deputy/Joseph Seed, masturbation, religious themes.)

Rook wakes up when the space beside him on the bed dips under weight, under a narrow body that smells like sweat, old paper and wood, slightly sugary like Bliss, faintest tang of blood. It's familiar enough that Rook lets it curl closer, touch him.

"Tell me why you're here," Joseph asks him.

"Because you asked me to be." Rook turns his head and opens his eyes, to a stare that he still has trouble meeting sometimes. 

Because everyone else had always told Rook where to go and what to do, who to kill. They'd pushed him, and demanded things of him, used him as a blunt object without a second thought. Because that was what Rook had always been good at. 

Joseph had offered him the chance to make his own choice, to join him, or crush him, or walk away. He'd waited in silence, as long as Rook had needed, to find out what that choice would be.

And Rook had set the world on fire for him. Because Joseph is all focus and madness, powered by certainty and vision. Insides all cut to broken pieces, outsides all steel and armour. Beautiful in all the ways no one ever cares about.

Joseph's hand slides down his arm, finds Rook's hand, and tangles their fingers together. He presses his face against the side of Rook's, glasses cold against his cheek. Joseph's mouth brushes the curve of his jaw when he speaks.

"Staying by my side is not something I demand of you," he says quietly. It's not the first time, as if he worries that Rook is unhappy with his place.

"There are worse places to be," Rook says. It's not the answer he'd like to give. But he's never been very good with words.

Joseph breathes something amused, like he didn't expect that answer, and there's the faintest pressure against Rook's cheek. He draws his sunglasses free, folds them and places them beside the bed. Then Joseph curls his fingers round the sheet that covers him, draws it from where it's fallen loosely against Rook's body, until it slides to the floor.

Joseph pushes himself up, knee nudging against Rook's outflung thigh, which he moves in obediently. Joseph braces himself over Rook's body, reaches down, unbuckles his own belt and unzips himself, pushes enough out of the way that he can draw himself free, and he's already hard when he grasps himself.

Rook wants to kiss him, but Joseph won't let him, because it's not allowed. Not while he's touching himself. They're not allowed sexual contact with each other. Not according to Joseph. Joseph who stretches the definition of what's allowed and what isn't to absolute fucking breaking point. Lust is a sin, touching another person with sexual intent is a sin, and Joseph cannot indulge in sin. He is the Father, and he has to set an example for others.

There is only so much room on his skin.

Rook watches him, because that's all he can do. He watches Joseph's eyes go soft and distracted, watches the way his hand tightens every time Rook makes a noise, every time he meets Joseph's eyes. 

The movement of his hand, the sweep of his fingers, and the indecent jut of his cock, is so close to Rook's skin. A breath away from pressing, from grinding hard and sweet into him. Rook's stomach twists and clenches, jumps like it remembers how this always ends.

There's a steady, desperate pace to Joseph now, every breath a shiver. Close enough to feel the edge of it.

Rook swears under his breath, clenches his hands in the pillows underneath him, so he doesn't reach for Joseph, doesn't try and touch him. Because that's always the part that's the hardest. The restraint, the patience, following Joseph's rules. Joseph makes a lot of rules, but this is the only time Rook doesn't mind doing what he's told. Rook will put Joseph on his back later, he'll spread his arms out, drag the sheets down so he can see every inch of him, and he will do exactly the same thing. Joseph will let him, will watch him, just like this.

Rook watches the steadiness of Joseph's pace falter, watches his eyes go dark and wide.

"Father," Rook breathes out, low and desperate. Just to see what will happen.

Joseph gives a choked groan, which sounds pained and helpless. He comes messily across Rook's stomach, Rook feels the wet lines of it, warm where his skin contracts underneath, whole body tight with the need to reach up, to touch Joseph. He can't hold the noise he makes, one greedy punch of sound. He bites at his cheek and stays where he is. Joseph curls into him as far as he can, a moment of shared heat, breathing raspy and thin. His eyes are fixed on Rook's mouth, and he murmurs something quiet and lost.

Eventually he sighs and pushes himself back, carefully eases himself back into his pants.

Rook retrieves his sunglasses, opens them, and stretches up far enough to settle them over Joseph's eyes again.

Joseph leans down after, and his hand is a brief, warm weight against the side of Rook's face.

"We have done nothing to be forgiven for," Joseph says quietly.


	13. Hide Them From Sight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's a reason he always wears gloves (Deputy/John Seed, supernatural powers)

There's a reason Rook always wears gloves, though it's not the one he tells people when they ask. It's easier to hide that way, easier to make sure there are no accidents, no questions. Rook hates the questions, he hates the questions most of all, because he doesn't know any of the answers. He doesn't think he wants to know the answers.

He wears the gloves because he has to. He can stop it happening, for the little things, hold it in, stem the eager grasping of it. But the big things, the breaks, the open wounds, the spill of blood onto grass. That's when it reaches out, when it needs, like a hunger. 

So he wears the gloves, because he doesn't want anyone to know.

Rook's watching John Seed bleed out in the grass, red spattering the dirt around him. He's pale, mouth a bruise of red and white, and for the first time there's no anger in him, just a frustrated insistence that Rook listen, please listen, there's no more time. There's nothing left in him, there are three bullet holes, and Rook knows he's dying. Not slowly but fast, pouring life through his own fingers like a cracked hourglass.

It's been the story of Rook's life, for as long as he can remember. The push and the pull of it. Competing impulses, the need to break things apart and the need to fix them, to make them whole again. He'd always thought that conflict was unique to just him.

He crouches down, lets John dig his fingers into the sleeve of his shirt, though he doesn't have the strength to pull Rook closer. His eyes are huge, pained, part of him is still questioning, even though he doesn't have the breath left to speak. Why won't Rook understand, why is it going to end like this, why everything is falling apart when they were so close? John Seed dies in frustrated despair.

And Rook is left alone.

He shouldn't.

This is stupid.

This will be the stupidest thing he has ever done.

Rook grabs the glove on his left hand in his teeth, tugs it free, lets it fall in the grass.

Then he flicks John Seed's vest and shirt open, lays a hand on the unmoving warmth of his bare chest, and drags him back to life. Rook fills him until there's nothing left, until it's pouring out of him. He watches John Seed breathe, blink in the light, cough blood out of his throat, and then Rook pulls his hand away.

John Seed watches him pull the glove back on in silence. He watches him hide his hand from view, scowling into the sun. His eyes are all questions, and almost all of them are _why_. Why would you hide this? Why didn't you tell anyone? Why are you here? Why did you bring me back?

Rook ignores them all

Because some people don't want to be Chosen.


	14. The Next Move Is Yours

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Deputy indulges his artistic side (Deputy/John Seed, tattooing)

Rook takes the wet rag away from his mouth, waves away the lingering streams of fragmenting Bliss, and considers the sprawled-out, unconscious form of John Seed.

That was a pretty clever trap, if he does say so himself. He kicks John's ankle with a boot, but there's no reaction, not even a murmur. John's out cold. Which is really so much less than he deserves. Rook's a second away from grabbing his guns and walking away, from getting the hell out of this place, when he spots something on the bench behind them. It stops him in his tracks. Well now, that is awfully fucking tempting. 

Really, if Rook has to live with 'Wrath' tattooed on his chest, then it's only fair he gets to return the favour. He claims the tattoo gun for himself, kicks the upturned chair out of the way and pushes John's legs a little close together, before straddling his waist, letting his weight rest somewhere between crotch and thighs. 

Rook thumbs open all the buttons on John's vest, then tugs the shirt out of his pants and starts on that.

Honestly, it's a shame John Seed is a crazy, violent lunatic, because he's a man that Rook would not have minded having in this position under other circumstances. Less murderous circumstances.

And, yes, he is aware that getting revenge on the man who tattooed you against your will, by tattooing him back, is probably only going to escalate the unpleasantness between them. But it feels pretty appropriate to Rook, and hell, if John Seed's attention is on him then at least it isn't on anyone else. 

Rook opens John's shirt, kneels on one of the trailing edges and considers the long length of his chest. He makes a very appealing picture.

"It's a good job I'm not a crazy, violent lunatic," Rook tells him. "Or you might be in trouble."

Rook is not an artist, but he can do an acceptable job at copying things if put to the task, and what he has planned isn't exactly complicated. The question is where to put the damn thing? He doesn't want to tattoo over any scar tissue, because he doesn't know whether you're even supposed to do that, and tattooing over another tattoo is just messy and unprofessional.

Rook wants to be professional here.

"I can't have people questioning my commitment now, can I?" Rook laughs down at John Seed, then smacks him on the cheek, and enjoys the utter lack of reaction far too much.

Fuck it, just over the left nipple it is. Rook leans over him, and he's big enough that it feels awkwardly cramped like this, but he can get a good hold on the skin. Which is warm and smooth under his hand, shifting slightly on every breath. 

"Why do you have to be such a fucking disaster of a human being," Rook grumbles, and then gets to work. The gun is a lot louder than he remembers it being. Oh, vibration too. Should he test it on something first? What the fuck is he doing? Ok, so Rook now has a permanent line at the end of his thumb, but it works.

He presses it down against John's skin, and well, now he's started so he _has_ to finish. How long does Bliss keep you under anyway? Probably not that long. Still he's not going to rush, he's going to enjoy this moment, because he's not going to get another one, and he's probably going to have to hurt for it later.

Rook very carefully outlines and then slowly fills in the shape of it. It's not quite as easy as it looks, there's a trick to the speed of it, the pressure. Look at him, learning new skills, and he didn't even have to read about it in a magazine first.

"Guess I have you to thank for that, huh?" he tells John. Not that it matters, since he can't hear him.

After a minute Rook leans back, considers the deputy's badge from a few feet away, it's actually pretty good. Sort of pointed and mocking, set around all the accusations of sin.

"Fuck it, you put words on me, it's only fair to return the favour." Rook leans closer and adds his name underneath it, which curls artistically when the muscle moves.

Rook stares at it for a minute, more than satisfied.

"You want to complain about it, you can come and find me."


	15. The Baptism

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rook always thought this sort of thing was done during the day (Deputy/John Seed/Joseph Seed, threesomes, religious themes)
> 
> [Yes, this is a bit longer than 1000 words, but it was snuck in at the end, on a whim. So I am pretending that it's fine!]

Rook always thought this sort of thing was done during the day, bright sunlit skies, shining water, crowds of people. At least that's the picture he's always had in his head.

It's almost dark, and they're miles from anywhere, the river a curling drag of cool, dark water. It's just him, Joseph and John, standing shirtless on a river bank. Or maybe it's weirdly appropriate, considering the destruction Rook had caused to Eden's Gate, under cover of darkness. 

Until the world had exploded, all fire and destruction, and the last safe place to wait until the dust settled had been Eden's Gate. Joseph had held out a hand, and Rook had taken it.

John catches his wrist, fingers hot and tight, and pulls him into the water. It's cold on Rook's thighs, and it's not long before he's wading rather than walking, John encourages in long pulls, like this is something he wants, something important to him. Which makes it, in some complicated way, important to Rook too. 

"So how does this work?" Rook asks. 

"Well, I'm here to make sure he doesn't try and drown you?" John says seriously.

"What?"

John laughs and tugs him a little deeper into the water, it's waist high now. They're deep enough that they probably all look naked from the shore.

"I'm kidding, you're family now, remember." John disputes the words a second later by leaning forward and crushing their mouths together. Before he takes hold of Rook's shoulders and turns him to face Joseph.

Joseph who's close enough to touch, wet hands lifted towards him, running gently. They spill droplets on Rook's shoulders and chest when John encourages him forward, then stays against his back, a warmth of bare skin and restless anticipation.

Even considering Joseph's lack of normal social boundaries, this feels weirdly intimate. 

"You don't have be afraid," Joseph says, he's smiling.

"He won't touch you if you don't want him to," John says, quietly.

For a second Rook has no idea what he means, touching Rook is the point of this. The moment hangs, strange and full. Until something almost uncertain moves into Joseph's expression. And just like that Rook understands, he understands the reason for the shivery tension that runs through John, the reason for Joseph's strange, quiet patience.

John's hands spread on his back, not pushing but wanting to. It's a plea, something soft, and Rook knows that John _wants_ this. He wants to give Rook to his brother, or give his brother to Rook. One or the other. 

Joseph has been mysterious and inscrutable and terrifying in all the months Rook has known him. He's been a madman, and a symbol, and a leader. But he's never been this, he's never been flesh and blood, all warm hands and potential, not like John, not to Rook.

Not until now.

Oh.

The thought of it surprises a tug of unexpected lust out of him. 

Rook steps forward, accepts.

There are wet hands on Rook's face, the warm rush of breath that sounds pleased, and then pressure on the relaxed line of his mouth. John makes a noise behind him, bitten and soft, fingers curling into Rook's waist. But then John steps back, and Rook can't work out why. 

Until Joseph puts a hand on his chest and pushes. The world tips and Rook is underwater, wet hand clasped round Joseph's wrist, and everything in him says fight it, but he doesn't. He lets it happen. 

And then he's out of the water, being dragged upright, breathing droplets, half blind.

Joseph's hands lift to his face, push hair out of his eyes, and then he's kissing him again, harder than before, mouth running water. Rook pushes wet hands into Joseph's tightly managed hair and kisses him back. 

John laughs and reaches for them both, leads them to shallower water, until it splashes at Rook's thighs. 

Rook's turned to meet John's kiss, which is fierce, hands tight on his face.

"I knew you'd say yes," he says simply. "I always knew."

Joseph's hands slide down, catch the tight, wet waistband of Rook's pants. He thumbs the button open, drags the wet zipper down, parting the fabric by sliding hands underneath and pushing its clutching weight off Rook's hips. A drag that leaves his cock naked above the lapping water, and John is sinking down, drawing Rook in with his own hands. 

"You're ours," John says fiercely and Rook realises suddenly that this was what he wanted all along, what he was pulling Rook towards without saying a thing.

John splays a hand on his wet stomach, spreads his fingers, he opens his mouth around Rook's cock, sliding down it, until Rook gives in and hisses pleasure, hand falling back to catch the top of Josph's thigh, which flexes under the tight, wet material of his pants.

Joseph breathes an exhale against the side of Rook's face, before catching his jaw, turning it sideways. Joseph stops him watching John, makes Rook see him instead, eyes a challenge to look at. Rook doesn't try, shuts his own, lets Joseph draw his mouth open and press his own down over it. 

John is making low, pleased noises around him, and Rook reaches down, blind, finds the curve of his bearded jaw, the side of his face.

There's movement behind him, the brief loss of Joseph's mouth and then he's back against him, drawing in close and tight. Only now there's a bare, hard line against the naked curve of Rook's ass, warmth shifting against the wet skin, one slow slide and then push of pressure. Joseph's arm winds around Rook, fingers spread on his chest, possessive and warm.

Rook doesn't know who to touch, doesn't know which to try and lay his hands on, settles for some confused mixture of both. John's hair threaded between his fingers, and the bare curve of Joseph's shifting hip under the palm of his hand. Rook digs his fingers in where they lay and wants it, he wants all of it, insides twisted, and hot. 

John's hands are sliding on him, trying to grip him, mouth all heat and pressure. Joseph is whispering into Rook's throat, something soft and wildly inappropriate, while his cock drags and pushes, and smears lines of tacky need in the valley of Rook's ass.

And Rook can't help how quickly they both shove him to the edge, so fast it almost feels like a drop.

"Fuck," Rook says simply, and he tightens up, coaxes John in close, and John doesn't resist, comes willingly, gives _everything_ , until the world narrows down to squeezing tightness, to the slide of wet hands, and the warmth of John's throat.

Rook's still shaking with after-echoes of pleasure when Joseph's hands grasp his hips, when he presses in hard and tight behind him. There's a soft, satisfied sound against the side of his throat, and then warmth against Rook's ass, and the small of his back. And a second later, he feels Joseph carefully spread him, letting it run down. 

Rook's not an expert, but he's pretty sure this is not how a baptism is supposed to go.


End file.
